


grief work.

by anoetic



Series: grief work. [2]
Category: Professional Wrestling, Tokio Hotel, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Loss, M/M, Post-Break Up, Rare Pairings, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-06-03 12:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoetic/pseuds/anoetic
Summary: what do you do when the light of your life has gone out?





	1. denial.

**Author's Note:**

> a cathartic piece as i am working through my own loss, i may write more in the future.  
> thank you for reading.  
> liking and commenting always welcome.

The first morning without him is unusual. 

The sun is bursting wide and wild hot against his face and his skin tingles like it would when he would feel his mouth there on his cheek, kissing him good morning and his eyes pop open, heart palpitating, crackling with hope, but there's nothing there, nothing here and there won't be, probably for a very long time. He hasn't cried at all since it happened, maybe that's normal in a situation like this, he reasons. Slowly he sits up, as if it physically pains him to, aches and pains blistering through his body. When did it start hurting so much? He's used to a thousand messages on his phone in the morning, but this morning there are none. He feels something like lead drop down hard in his stomach, sitting miserably there like a stone, refusing to move. He looks over his shoulder towards the other side of the bed, a pool of sunlight touching the sheets golden, it's delicate, warm and it's something he loved to see as he would turn over onto his side and kiss him there and there and there. Seeing it now makes him uncomfortable and he looks away. He decides now to begin his day, the rest of his life. Things are different now and not in the way he likes. There's an empty space that was once full with love, slick and sweet to the bones with it. How could it have gone so quickly? Or had it been slow dripping the entire time and he had failed to notice the signs? Failure isn't easily accepted by him, neither is loss. He wants to dwell into anger, into fire and rage, but at who? At what? It won't bring him back. He tries to anyway, balling his fists, tightens his jaw, bares his teeth and glares at the wall, needing an enemy out of nothing. He can play the part well, but he's become all bark and no bite.

When did the big dog become so soft?

There isn't anything left in him in this empty space and he relaxes his hands, tension dissolving from his face, the sun still light on his skin. There is nothing to go to war with anymore but his grief.

Life goes on.

The world doesn't stop for tragedy, for loss and heart ache. It moves indifferently, beautifully and lusciously forward, the sun always rising high again. “How can that be?” he wonders, attempting to philosophize his pain. He knows that his suffering is not unique, there are millions of other people caught in the grip of heart break, but nobody knows it like he does, that this is something only he himself can understand. He nods his head, hands gripping the steering wheel in confirmation as he drives, on his way to tonight's show. He works himself up into what he thinks is acceptance, into bliss and excitement for something new. It works for the night until rage catches up with him on stage. It must have been hiding somewhere beneath the pain and it leaps boldly into him, the terror in his eyes is real, he loses himself in it. The pain he inflicts now is real, not imagined and it hurts, it hurts bad. It's only when he hears Elias scream in his ear that he comes out of it suddenly and he stops himself from breaking Elias's arm in front of millions of people.

Naturally, his friends start to ask questions, tentatively, softly in the beginning, those concerned gazes and voices quiet with worry. It nauseates Roman at first, then it frightens him because he realizes that there's no hiding it anymore. There's no hiding this anymore, that his heart is broken and he can't stop the bleeding anymore. He lies anyway. How can he be honest with others when he isn't willing to be honest with himself?

This is the new normal and he fucking hates it.


	2. resistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are appreciated. thank you for reading!

Things don't get much better as the days wear on.

It's a different kind of normal, a gradual getting used to that Roman is sure he'll never fully accept. The sun never changes, though, the way it warms his skin, the way it bathes the sheets just right in that tender gold. It's unbearable. Tonight he goes out to meet someone, a rare first but times are tough and he's lonely and afraid to admit to himself why that is. This guy seems pretty nice, looks nice and says all the right things, a little timid but not in a way that bothers him. Why not try it? They go back to Roman's apartment. The sex is clumsy, awkward and distant. It doesn't feel good and he closes his eyes in relief when he feels the guy come. He doesn't stay the night. The sheets feel suffocating, dirty and with a groan he slaps his hands to his face, wrenching his eyes shut from this terrible feeling gnawing at his chest-- longing. For some reason it pains him to be honest with himself and accept that he misses him, he misses him a whole lot. He wasn't prepared to miss someone this much. "Didn't think it was possible, y'know, " he said to Dean one evening, big body hunched over in perpetual grief, his arms resting on his thighs as he looks at the floor. It feels like he's hovering between worlds, one that's familiar to him and one that isn't and he doesn't know which one he belongs to anymore.

There are small victories here and there, a homemade dinner that turns out better than expected, a burst of loud laughter with friends, a penny found in front of his door step, a loving conversation with his mother, it all matters to Roman, it all counts.

Sometimes the light asks to be let in and sometimes he lets it.


	3. self sabotage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in situations like this, don't blame yourself or punish yourself for what happened. you end up in a negative cycle of self blame and it makes healing impossible. show compassion for yourself and allow yourself to view the experience as a learning lesson.
> 
> kudos and comments are always appreciated! thank you for reading!

There's this dream he keeps having.

It started a few days after it ended. It's always the same, the story never changes, the characters, the sounds, the smells, the touches, none of it changes. In the dream Roman can feel that he's there, near him, close by, almost teasing him with how close his energy seems to be and Roman always follows, he never runs toward it, towards this feeling of him. It eludes him each time, an arm's length away, an _"i love you_ " length away, an apology never said away and suddenly, like always Roman wakes up. This morning it's different, his throat feels tight, heavy, clenched shut with something he can't seem to swallow, his gaze is lifted up at the ceiling, faint glitters of sunlight showering the ceiling fan. He feels something wet at the corner of his eye, he notices the way it trails down the slope of his cheek then against the shell of his ear, it's a tear. The tightness in his throat softens then, two tears, he sucks in a trembling breath as if attempting to brace himself and he begins to cry. 

Love touches us, it touches us deep down into our core, inviting us to be seen just as we are. For some that's a relief that is graciously accepted, but for others, like Roman, that was terrifying, that moment of being seen for exactly who he is. It pushed him to hide, that letting in of the light and that was what cost him, his choosing fear instead of love. What's left now for him is loneliness, regret, shame and a sickening sense of humiliation.

"Sometimes shit like this just happens, Ro. We don't always get it right the first time," Dean said to Roman over the phone later that day, his voice soft, apologetic even. It soothed Roman, the phone cradled warm in his hand as he sat on his couch. He sighs again, other hand wiping at his eyes. Why is he crying so much? "I know," he replies finally, mournfully. He knows Dean can hear how tired he is. "I know," he says again. "I just wish... I just," he pauses, drawing in a shaky breath as the truth comes rising up, trickling miserably out of him. "I just wish I coulda got it right the first time."

After the end of another show Bayley catches up with Roman. They chat for a little bit and she tells him about mindfulness, about being in your body. She demonstrates to him what body awareness looks like, pressing her hand to her throat, then to her chest, closing her eyes and sucking in a breath and exhaling. "And you just say to yourself something like, _"hm, my chest feels tight right now"_ or like _"my chest feels heavy"_ , you know, just stuff like that. It helps you when you're not sure what you're feeling, you know. I mean, it's worked for me so I figured maybe it'll work for you." She smiles at him then, sincere and kind and Roman promises her that he'll give it a try.

Can't hurt him, right?

He's home now, eyes looking up at the ceiling again. He places his finger tips against his throat, his breathing slow, shallow, almost painful. He remembers what Bayley taught him and he shuts his eyes, breathing in deeply then exhaling. "My throat feels tight," he says to himself. He sits in silence for a few minutes before he feels something wet at the corner of his eye again. _'I'm crying,'_ he realizes. "But I don't know why. I don't _fucking know why._ " he grinds out the last sentence, balling his fists, his voice bubbling up with a roar of anger until it snaps, giving way into grief and he begins to sob.

There are so many things left unsaid, so many things left undone.

Now more than ever he wishes that he got it right the first time.


	4. i choose love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because it's worth it. because he's worth it.
> 
> kudos, comments and bookmarks are always appreciated!  
> thank you for reading!

He decides to call him.

Thinking about it makes his stomach churn with dread, knives wedged up hard in his throat and his shoulders tighten. Is this the right thing to do? Will he even answer? What does Roman want from this? He exhales, eyes closing as he shifts anxiously in his seat on the couch. Everything feels so sped up suddenly, his thoughts twisting around him at the speed of light, his blood running cool with terror and his limbs heavy. It's nauseating, overwhelming and for a second he feels like he can't do this, doubt slithering down his neck, threatening to suffocate him. He balls his fists, heart palpitating between his ears. Why is he losing his mind over a fucking phone call?

Then he remembers him, pictures so beautifully, so easily that pretty face, eyes brown sugar and warm in a way that turns Roman sweet into honey, the touch of his hands against Roman's cheek, gentle and sure, love folded up sweetly into every kiss, how the sun would color his skin golden in Roman's arms as he slept, blond hair a tired mess, how good he felt, how good Roman felt, how fucking good it felt to be loved by him.

That means more. So much more than this.

Trembling fingers scroll through the call logs on his phone, the name may have been deleted but the number never would be. He draws in another shaking breath and dials the number.

He's never thought much about god, about miracles or hope or second chances, but right now he can't stop wishing, can't stop praying, can't stop begging to god to please make this happen, _please please please_.

Maybe sometimes god listens to us. Maybe sometimes it's good to have hope. Maybe sometimes miracles do happen and maybe we do get second chances and maybe they sound like his voice, soft and surprised on the other end as he says Roman's name, as if it were for the very first time, the silence between them suddenly rupturing, open and wide, the wound seeping out into the sky.


	5. welcome home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes miracles just happen and sometimes, we create them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been such an intensely emotional journey being in such masculine energy for the past several weeks! it isn't how i am normally, quite the opposite & so having to call in that energy in order to continue writing this has been overwhelming and frustrating at times, but it's been worth it because it's brought us here- to love and reconciliation. 
> 
> thank you for reading and being here with me! kudos, comments, bookmarks and more are always appreciated! for those interested, i have an aesthetic blog for this series. it is updated as needed at youvegivenbackatme.tumblr.com.

There’s a memory that he always turns to, the moment they first met, the cool, early spring rain, soft rumblings of thunder rolling through earth, the sky illuminated briefly in brilliant light, how it all seemed like the perfect stage, the perfect place, the perfect time for the two of them to know one another. They both smoked, twin flames glowing tenderly in the dark. Roman liked his style, bordering on what he considered to be the feminine side, but it suited him somehow. He knew he liked Roman from the very beginning, those quick, secret glances, nervous, teeming with that schoolgirl in love shyness. It charmed Roman, bringing a smile to his face each time he would look at him like that, full of longing and sick with love.

He never dreamed that someday he would lose that.

He still sounds the same on the phone, like nothing has changed, but Roman knows that’s far from the truth. He’s still sitting on the couch, unaware that his knuckles are turning white from gripping the arm of the couch so strongly.

“Bill?”

It feels like something in Roman snaps into pieces when he says his name and he wrenches his eyes shut as if overcome with pain, but there’s something else buried beneath that, something softer, something far more tender– relief. More of it comes rushing up to the surface when Bill answers him, the distance between them closing up yet expanding at the same time. Roman takes in a deep breath, he can feel his hands shaking for some reason, the words falling apart on his tongue, failing him. What do you say in a situation like this? Roman has never begged for anything or to anyone, before. What makes this moment any different?

What makes _him_ so different?

“I, uh, I mean, uh, t…thanks, you know, f-for picking up,” he sputters out, his face flushed blood red. He waits for Bill’s reply, every second feeling like agony. He feels as if he's suddenly become small, shrunken down to miserable, shameful size and yet still there is a part of him, one that's gentle and sure that tells him that he's doing the right thing, that this is the right thing to do. He hears what sounds like a sigh on the other end of the line and swallows hard, tapping his foot anxiously against the floor. “No yeah, I mean, uh, thank you for… you know, um, calling,” is the same trembling response, Bill's voice faltering into a mournful silence.

They say nothing then, the door between them pulled wide open, the two of them standing hopelessly on either side, looking desperately at one another. It’s been like this for too long and for once, Roman has grown sick of something other than himself.

“I missed you. I missed you so fucking much,” he says, and it’s true. The tapping goes quiet and his other hand now rests in his lap. There’s a welling up in his throat that catches him by surprise and he closes his eyes again, taking in a slow, rattling breath. “You have no fucking idea how much I missed you, how much I fucking regret the shit I did to you, the shit I fucking put you through, the shit I fucking said to you, the way I fucking did you and I–” He stops there abruptly, nearly out of breath and frantic. He can feel it opening up, can feel his heart breaking, the wound coming beautifully undone, the blood spilling out hot and ugly between them and briefly he’s petrified of what Bill will think of him now, when he finally sees Roman for exactly what he is– wounded and scared.

“I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry for hurting you.”

One of Roman’s most cherished memories of Bill is when Bill would always tease him about how fond his heart was of Roman’s heart, how it could never get enough of that love, how Bill’s heart was just honey drunk on it, a kiss here and a kiss there to Roman's mouth as he would gladly tell him, affection nestled sweetly between the both of them.

Roman wonders why he spent so long blaming him for what happened. It made it easier that way, made his suffering Bill’s problem, Bill’s fault and his cross to bear, not Roman’s, but that didn’t change anything. It didn’t lessen the pain. It was still his face Roman saw in the mirror every morning, not Bill’s. Choosing to lay the blame on Bill for his own fuck up may have given Roman the same familiar, dysfunctional high of instant gratification, but it never gave him what he really wanted, who he really wanted.

“Roman?”

“Yes,” he answers quickly and he swears that he heard Bill laugh a little at that and he smirks to himself then, treasuring the sound of him.

“Can I see you?” Bill wants to know, the words hopeful, aching almost and Roman nods, as if he were right there in front of him, looking at him. “Yes. Yes, I’ll see you in a little bit, okay?” “Okay,” is the soft reply, the call dropping shortly after.

 _This is it,_ Roman tells himself over and over as he hustles out of the front door and towards the parking lot. _This is it_ , he tells himself as he races down the highway in the heat of the night, the world a blistering blur behind him. There’s music playing but he doesn’t hear it, his heart is pounding but he doesn’t feel it. _This is it_ , he tells himself when he pulls into the parking lot of Bill’s apartment building. _This is it_ , he tells himself as he walks towards his apartment, ringing the door bell after sending him a text that he’s here. _This is it_ , he tells himself when he watches the knob turn and the door creak open to that beautiful face, smiling thankfully at him. _This is it_ , he tells himself.

This is it.


End file.
